


Bound

by die_eike



Category: Farseer Trilogy - Robin Hobb, Realm of the Elderlings - Robin Hobb
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Dark, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, POV Blade, POV Burrich, POV Lacey, POV Whistle, Royal Assassin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 01:40:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29768754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/die_eike/pseuds/die_eike
Summary: When Fitz is bound to die,Two decide on a plan that takes three.One will blame himself for the rest of his life.One will stand stong against all odds.Many will fight.Few goals will align.All will hurt.
Relationships: Blade & FitzChivalry Farseer, Burrich & Blade, Burrich & FitzChivalry Farseer, Burrich & Nighteyes, Patience & FitzChivalry Farseer, Patience Farseer/Lacey (Robin Hobb)
Kudos: 4





	Bound

**Author's Note:**

> Please only consider reading if you are in for the hurt. I had to write this as a cartharsis after re-reading Royal Assassin. That last chapter. OMG. I had forgotten how talented Robin Hobb is in making you *feel*. 
> 
> Why I focus on Burrich here? Well, he might not be the best father figure and has many flaws (ok, mostly one big), but I have always felt that he, in his own gruff way, truly, deeply cared. 
> 
> The description of Lady Patience as having "thoughts scattered into the four winds at all times, but her heart always in the right place" is taken from "The Observation of Lady Patience in Her Natural Environment" by electropeach. It inspired me a lot for the Lacey/Patience scene. Thank you for making these words headcanon.

I see a heart fuelling a flame with shadows. It burns, not around, but inside the heart. Then the flame becomes a single spark that is contained in an oil lamp. It rests on a snowy field. A cold wind blows around it, carrying a whisper:

“Fatherless he will be

Until he binds to him three

A king proclaimed mad

A weaver of thread

And the heart of a pack

Will raise their son from the dead.”

This dream can be traced back to the Unexpected Son with a certain probability. It features the element that accompanies many dreams on the Son: a flame of great power. It is also laden with foreboding, with a strong sense of shame before justice. I have dreamed it only once, yet it struck me with its intensity. I judge it to be of a near inevitable future. To my best knowledge, however, there is no further reference to be found on the nature of the three fathers mentioned in this dream.

DREAM 731, OF DELLA OF THE CORATHIN LINEAGE

Most would go for the head, in the heat of a brawl, and forget about the weak spots at the sides. Whistle’s fist came in a low-sweeping hook to the liver. It made the soldier in Buck Blue gasp a hollow sound and stare down at her in surprise. He let go of the Farrow man he had kept in a headlock. No soldier, but gentry by the look of him. Praise Eda, no steel had been drawn so far.

“Queen’s Guard, to me!”

This from Foxglove. Whistle spat blood through the gap between her teeth and joined the advance to the kitchen yard, where the fight was thickest, a mangling of blue and gold and purple. The Queen’s Guard had orders to wedge between both factions. Where was Blade, to keep his guards in check? Where the Inlander Officers?

Then she heard it, in shouts and cries over the clamor of the brawl. The king – dead. Treachery. The Fitz taking revenge, the Fitz a madman, a beast, the Fitz an assassin. She strained her ears for commands to obey. She fought while something inside her detached, whispering that this was all too wrong. Inlanders taking over the keep. The Fitz taken down, dead, or not, she didn’t know. Where was the queen? King Verity – something inside her clenched. A Tilth guard turned to face her, her teeth bared, but she backed away. How could they be fighting their own, in these of all times? As if they all were Forged, yet worse, because they weren’t. When the guard came for her, Whistle fled.

-

The drink thrummed thickly inside his head. Burrich swallowed more of it. There was no taste to it, other than a burning that numbed. Save for the flame of cold purpose raging deep inside him. Drink fueled it. He would burn tonight.

His shaky fingers picked up the small linen sack and set it on the table. A present from the Pocked Man, from Death come to life, and likewise of it. He shoved away the tack he should have mended days ago and began to work. Somehow he would mend it all. A lonely mongrel yipped down in the kennels, pained and confused. Burrich shuddered.

_Pride made his fur bristle, yet he succumbed to the ministrations of Burrich’s hands. His eyes shone._

_"He’s trapped. It hurts him."_

_He knew the wolf meant more than just Regal’s dungeon._

_"Yes. It is the way of our kind."_

_Nighteye’s muzzle scrunched up in a snarl and Burrich felt flashes of a stinking cage, a stick poking and beating, an existence reduced to its usefulness for feeding their cruel desires._

_"Men!"_

He tried to bind the small package with thread. It was too thin, it broke. He cursed his struggling fingers. When the wad rolled from the table to the floor, Burrich knew there had to be another solution. He knelt, bad leg straining, and felt the floorboards heaving. Scrabbling over the treacherous ground, his hand kept searching. There. He grabbed the pellet, and, fist pressed shut, raised his head.

An empty bench stretched before him, bare except for the carefully folded blanket at its foot. The flame inside him seared up, burning in his throat. He made a stupid, choking noise.

How often had he stood here, checking on the small, huddled form, dark tousled curls framing the face from which eyes would watch him during the day, always earnest, always carrying a glint of wariness. But exhaustion would clear away the stubborn crease between his brows, the night breeze blow over and soften his features. And it was then that he could be the child he truly was. Burrich would stand sentinel, guarding the boy’s slumber. For a time, it had been as simple as that.

_The wolf twitched and shook, trying to yank his head out of Burrich’s grip as soon as he had pulled out the barb. But he held fast._

_"Show me."_

_The wolf recoiled, giving a hoarse whine. He would take his brother with him, into a night hunt under a clear, star-sprinkled sky, not the other way round._

_"Show me!" Burrich insisted._

_Suddenly, stink and cold and thirst enveloped him. And pain, so much pain. Burrich drew in a sharp, shallow breath. The link severed and the wolf sprang up, hackles raised, then spun and bounded out of the hut with his tail between his legs._

_Burrich let him. He did not wait long._

_"Heart of the Pack. What shall we do?" Confusion. Making plans about things yet to come were men’s thoughts._

_"Nighteyes," Burrich acknowledged. Then he gave the wolf his instructions._

He pushed himself up and stumbled back to his table. He released the pellet and drew something from his pack, unwrapping it carefully. He clipped the black barbed tip and the white end from the porcupine quill and closed the wad with ease. A simple and elegant solution. Trust, Burrich. He let his forehead sag into hands that would not stop to shake. The pungent scent of the Carryme enveloped him, a promise of a sleep in peace. After a while, he was better. He carefully cleaned up behind the secret work he had done and set off.

He was already guilty of the deed. Now, he just needed enough eyewitnesses.

-

Blade walked slowly, carefully. The bruises were nothing to him; he had lived through far worse. Yet he had lingered in the steams after washing away the grime and blood. He had gone a second time. Then a third. He had rubbed at his skin, already red and hot and clean, and only stopped himself when he realized he was trying to see it come apart.

A dog howled. Cold wind gusted through the yard, sending white linens billowing and shivers running down his spine. Something bad had happened to his shoulder. Blade embraced the dull pain like an old friend. He patted the pocket where he kept his other friend.

-

Burrich gave in to it. Yes, it was a fine task he had. Something he was good at, so very, very good. Everything he had built up while sealing it away, strong and deep inside, had gone to ashes and ruin. Somewhere a beast howled in agony. He wasn’t sure it was a dog. He tried to care less, to care as little as he cared for the looks thrown at him, the backs turned. He knew he didn’t belong. He belonged to nothing but shadows and ghosts. The bottle was too light in his hand and yet too heavy, the spirits inside long gone, consumed by his flame. He set it aside with a disgusted noise that blended into a soft clunk. The glow of torchlight danced across the smooth surface of the flask that had appeared on his table. He looked up into grim eyes.

“Burrich?”

-

“Blade.”

He sat down after the nod, surprised and relieved. He had spotted him right upon entering the guardroom, a gloomy figure hunched over a table in the corner. Burrich looked bad. His face was made of deep lines and glazed over, puffy eyes, shimmering red. He thought about the times when this man had occupied much loftier positions than that of a simple stable master. A hint of warmth rose inside Blade. On second thought, the man had never left that post.

Blade clicked the lid of his flask open. The scent of Wintergreen spirit rose, strong and tart. It drew Burrich’s eyes.

“Far better to get miserable in company,” Blade said.

Their gazes locked and something passed, a remnant of old times spent in simple comradeship. And if Blade’s mind was willing, he could mistake Burrich’s grimace for a smile.

-

“I swear to you, at that moment, anything was possible. It was all teetering on a blade’s edge.” Blade’s edge. He groaned at his own choice of words. “It was … my instincts taking over, I guess. Control the fire by putting out the source of the flame. To save’em all. I didn’t think ahead much. If I had rallied the Buck guard behind him, there and then …”

“And then what? Bah,” Burrich spat. “Buckkeep would’ve become the fouling wound from which a civil war would spread. Inland against coast, with Outislanders snapping at our heels.” He took another deep draught from the Winterberry and winced.

“Sometimes, fate leaves us no choices that are right. Then, the only way is to choose the lesser wrong.”

Blade nodded, yet unsure if he agreed. He would never forget the look in the boy’s eyes when he saw Blade advancing on him. A widening of surprise, then resignation. Heat shot into Blade’s head. He swallowed around the lump in his throat and rubbed at a spot on his hands.

“I – I wanted to save him. Instead I sent him to his death. Didn’t I?”

“No.” A heavy palm on his shoulder, the bad one, roughly shoving him. Burrich’s eyes glinted. Danger lurked there. “You’ve no right to take that blame. There’s only one person who has!”

-

Burrich felt a sudden chill washing away the muzziness of the drink. It was time. He drew himself up with less difficulty than he had imagined. The wooden bench scraped over the floor, stares pierced him, Blade’s eyes widened.

“Hear me, Buck guard!” Burrich’s hand went to his heart. “I’ve been called a master for too long when there’s nothing to master any more. This keep has its share of pretenders already!” Careful, now. Every step towards believability, the abyss threatened. He closed his eyes. _For you._ He felt the fabric tearing, seams cutting under his fingernails. He crumpled up the patch and threw it to the ground, a proud buck’s crest drowning in a puddle of drink.

“I’m done with it.” He had spoken too softly.

“I’m done with it all!” he barked into the baffled faces, then staggered to the door.

-

Several things inside Blade creaked and groaned, his shoulder, his ribs, his head, his mind, as he grunted and hoisted himself up to follow his brother-in-arms.

-

He dragged himself on. He knew he didn’t look that way, because of the fire he had fuelled and which burned him now, a release lending him strength. But it was a false, a lowly thing, glowing darkly where it should have been bright; smouldering, smoking where it should have cleansed.

He didn’t care because he was but a shadow on the wall.

 _You’re going to die._ Such a thing to say to a boy. Patience would have been outraged.

He played his act. Applause, applause for the puppeteer and his ingenuous pawn.

Suddenly, he found himself clinging to the bars. He tried not to think about the smell. The blood. Eda and El, Nighteyes had been merciful with the details. A shaking started deep inside him. The abyss. It threatened to smother the flame. He contained it. He was good at that. Setting borders. Confine to let thrive.

He did not blink when he held his gaze. Yet something of what had threatened to erupt leaked and found its way across the bars. _Forgive me._

Then he spat out the pellet. The flame took over again, and he tried to put as much information into that thickset skull as he could. But he was hopeless, as usual. He wasted energy standing, forming words nobody wanted to hear.

“You did the best with me you could.”

 _Stupid, stupid boy! For once, don’t hide from the truth!_ Angry tears welled up in Burrich. The boy would never trust, not completely, even if his life depended upon it.

“Just lie down and die.”

_I will guard your sleep._

-

Lacey had always considered Patience as a person with her thoughts scattered into the four winds at all times, but with her heart steadfast in the right place. But today, she was not so sure.

Her Lady’s movements were too controlled, too cautious, too careful. The frown on her face spoke of the tense focus with which she stacked towels and linen in neat piles on the tray, adding balm and water scented with lilies.

When she set off, eyes level with her burden and without a peek to neither left nor right, Lacey followed. After putting down the softly tinkling tray and a futile attempt at pulling open the heavy oak doors, Patience swayed. This was when Lacey stepped up to her and took her hand into hers, softly caressing it. The fingers were very cold. She squeezed them gently and Patience drew a shuddering breath.

Finally. Finally, Patience found Lacey’s gaze. Lacey held it, carefully, tenderly, _I am here_.

Patience did not break then, but straightened and pushed open the doors to the litter and the body waiting there. Lacey followed.

 _I will always have her back_ , Lacey whispered to the four winds, into which her Lady’s heart had been scattered today.

-

Pickaxes came down beside Whistle. The ground was frozen, the work hard. Whistle felt nothing as she dug. Not the cold. Nor the pain in her arms.

They were on a disciplinary measure decreed by King Regal, a measure for those he had chosen to punish for their involvement in the riot. Or other things. She didn’t care digging a grave for the Witted Bastard. She had liked him, more than a bit, she guessed, but she couldn’t quite remember how that had felt. When the frost finally succeeded in blurring her vision, she did not stop, but dug on blindly.

-

Burrich knew he was doing the wrong thing, a cruel thing, in calling him back. Chade, first awed by his magic, had long since grown agitated, incessantly mumbling under his breath that stood before him like a cloud, dimly illuminated by the light from a single lamp.

 _"Come"_ , he coaxed, he pled, he teased, he nudged.

Irritation.

 _"Come, come, come"_ , Burrich sang the song to himself, to not falter, to not break the rhythm that pulsed from his heart and bled forth.

Anger. Fear.

 _"Come. Come closer, come back."_ There was a goal and only one way to reach it.

 _"Let him go, Nighteyes. He is not yours."_ Assertion, claim. This he would understand. It was as much the way of men as of pack.

_"Is he prey, to be torn apart between fangs?"_

_"Not fangs. Decisions, duties. Kings."_

And then a kernel broke free, a soul unbounded, ready to be blown away, into the gusts over snowy fields.

_"Whose am I then?"_

When he sucked in his first strangled breath, Burrich fell to his knees, head bowed over him, cradling the dark, tangled locks. He was a flickering flame against his Wit sense. Maybe this body would not keep it in any more. Maybe he had been gone for too long.

So Burrich held on fast to him, relentlessly, his heart racing as he counted the seconds. When he could make out the second wheezing intake of air, he lifted his head to the whirling of snowflakes above. Gods beyond. He would live.

“You’re not dead,” he told him, over and over. He pressed his boy to his wildly thumping heart. _Not dead. Not dead._ The shaking from deep inside him emerged and took over. He let it.

“Stay with me, Fitz.” _Stay with me. With me. With me._

The bruises and cuts blurred and the face in his arms blended into that of a boy on a pallet in his den, whole and safe. Heat slowly trailed down the curves of his jaw, sinking into the bristle of his beard.

“You’re not dead, son, you’re not dead.” Son.

Burrich finally gave in, cradling his child to his chest, and, brow to brow with his son, rocking forth and back to the rhythm of his words. He cried, he cried out at last the painful knot he had buried inside, too deep, for too long.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into the dampness between their faces.

“I’m sorry for loving you too much and not enough to let you go.”


End file.
